Hawkes was just slamming down the telephone receiver as. Dillany entered. His beady black eyes snapped as he asked: ‘What about the Paul Temple story?’
Dillany shrugged.
‘I’ve tried to get hold of Forbes – in fact, I’ve been through to half a dozen people at the Yard. They’re not talking.’
‘You and your pals at the Yard!’ sneered Hawkes. ‘It’s a damn’ lucky thing for you and all of us I had the sense to send a man down there. And, what’s more, he’s landed a story, and it confirms this!’
He indicated the report in the evening paper.
‘You don’t mean Temple has been to the Yard?’ queried Dillany sceptically.
‘No, I mean the Yard has gone to Temple. Wilkinson was hanging around about an hour ago when he saw Forbes leave. He followed him to Temple’s flat. They’re there now.’ Dillany whistled softly to himself. ‘Then it looks as if they’re calling Temple in after all,’ he mused.
‘Of course they’re calling him in,’ rasped Hawkes impatiently. ‘What the hell do you think they’re doing? Drinking each other’s health?’
Which, in point of fact, was exactly what they were doing at that particular moment. Temple was reflecting that Forbes looked just a little greyer and the lines of his face were a shade more pronounced. Forbes was thinking that Temple, with his slight sunburn, appeared amazingly young, and he envied him his comparatively carefree existence. How very pleasant to disappear into the heart of the countryside to write a novel when one was in the mood. Like many people who have never written a book, Forbes imagined it was merely a matter of filling in an occasional hour in the evenings, with a pipe and a drink at one’s elbow to assist one’s pleasant ruminations.
The third member of the party, Inspector Emmanuel Crane, had never even given the matter a thought, though he did read a novel occasionally. A well-built, seemingly unimaginative individual, he sat four-square in one of the upright chairs, clutching his tankard. As he looked round Temple’s well-appointed lounge, he reflected for the first time that there must be money in this writing game. This fellow Temple had a place in the country too – yes, there must be a lot of money in it. More writing about crime than in tracking down criminals. He began to wonder how much…
Inspector Crane had a nasty habit of lifting a corner of his upper lip from time to time, thus giving his face a sneering expression which was more than a little unfortunate, and which created a none too favourable impression upon strangers. Temple, who had only met him casually once or twice previously at the Yard, was lazily trying to assess Crane’s possibilities, for he was apparently a very active personality at the Yard of recent months, according to reports he had received.
Meanwhile, Temple made pleasant conversation with Forbes, enjoying renewing his acquaintance with the rather brusque but none the less likeable personality.
‘What the devil have you been doing with yourself lately?’ Forbes was asking. ‘I tried to telephone you about a fortnight back.’
‘Steve and I have been at Bramley Lodge, and the village telephone exchange out there is, well, a bit happy-go-lucky,’ smiled Temple. ‘I’m writing a new novel – at least, I’m trying to write one.’
Crane suddenly came to life.
‘I read your last novel, sir,’ he announced with a note of pride in his voice.
‘Oh, did you, Inspector?’ Temple was just a shade taken aback.
‘So did I,’ grunted Forbes. ‘The detective was a bigger fool than ever!’
Temple laughed.
‘He had to be, Sir Graham,’ he replied with a twinkle. ‘Wasn’t he practically the Chief Commissioner?’
Crane’s hearty guffaw seemed to shake the glasses on the sideboard, and Forbes could not restrain a grim chuckle.
Temple got up to fill Forbes’ glass again, and as he returned the Assistant Commissioner said: ‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you why we’re here, Temple.’
Temple looked from one to the other, then said very quietly: ‘Rex?’
Forbes nodded, hesitated, then took a sip at his sherry.
‘Well?’ he queried, with a lift of his bushy grey eyebrows.
Temple slowly shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Graham,’ he murmured. ‘I’d like to help you if I could, but I must finish this novel by the end of the month and make a start on a series of articles I’ve been commissioned to write for an American magazine.’
Forbes put down his glass and gazed earnestly at the novelist. ‘Temple, I don’t think you realise just how serious this business is. It’s damned serious! I saw Lord Flexdale this morning—’
‘I heard him on the radio last night,’ interposed Temple with a trace of a smile. ‘A remarkable display of oratory, if I may say so.’
‘Oratory never caught a murderer yet in my experience,’ rejoined Forbes grimly. ‘And nobody knows that better than Flexdale. When I saw him this morning, he sent you a message.’
‘This is an unexpected honour.’
‘He said to me: “We must call in Paul Temple, and there isn’t a minute to lose. Get hold of Temple immediately!”’
Temple flicked the ash from his cigarette.
‘You tell Lord Flexdale with my compliments that if he will finish writing my novel I will catch Rex for him,’ he retorted lightly.
Crane did not appreciate this.
‘You’ll catch Rex, eh, Mr. Temple?’ he ruminated ponderously. ‘Just like that?’ He snapped his fingers expressively.
Temple still refused to take the matter very seriously. ‘Well, after all, Inspector,’ he murmured, ‘I was lucky enough to catch the Knave, the Front Page Man, Z 4, and, if I remember rightly, even the Marquis.’
‘Yes, that’s all very well, Mr. Temple,’ insisted Crane heavily, ‘but, if you’ll forgive my saying so, this is a different proposition.’
Temple gave him a friendly smile.
‘I quite appreciate that, Inspector,’ he said reassuringly. Then he turned to Forbes and asked: ‘When did you first hear about Rex? Forgive my asking such elementary questions, but I’ve been buried in the country.’
‘It was about six months ago,’ supplied Crane.
‘Yes,’ nodded Forbes.’ A man called Richard East was murdered – he was found in his car on the Great North Road. Chalked on the windscreen of the car was the word—’
‘Let me guess,’ smiled Temple. ‘And that was Rex’s first appearance?’
‘The very first time.’
‘How was East murdered exactly?’
‘He was shot through the head.’
‘Motive?’
Forbes stirred uneasily in his chair, and looked across at Crane, whose dour features were inscrutable.
‘There didn’t appear to be a motive,’ said Forbes at last. ‘There never does! That’s the extraordinary part about it, Temple, damn it, we just don’t know what we’re up against!’ He rubbed his chin with an impatient gesture.
‘Well, it certainly wasn’t money,’ ventured Crane. ‘East had about a hundred and fifty quid in his pocket when we found him.’
Temple was obviously getting interested.
‘And after the East murder?’ he asked.
‘After